The Bus Seat
by Captain Atticus
Summary: A oneshot detailing the morning of the field trip in School's Out Forever in Fang's POV. Faxness.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Fang's Point of View:**

When I wake up, it's instant. Just, BAM, and I'm fully functioning. The alarm clock goes off and I pretty much attack it, but as hard as I try, I can never fall back asleep after I pound in that snooze button. I guess it's just something you pick up when you're constantly under attack. You have to be ready to wake up fighting.

Today's different though. I didn't get enough sleep last night, mostly because I stayed up watching Max fly in the moonlight. She might've felt my eyes on her, but she still looked so peaceful, looping through the stars. I climbed into bed before she did; I heard her close her window just before I fell asleep.

Now I'm heading into Anne's kitchen, trying not to yawn, keeping my eyes alert. I probably don't want to know what Ig would think if Max and I both seemed tired. For a second or two, I wonder why _everyone's_ already awake, including Nudge, but then I remember what today is. Namely, it's field trip day.

Washington D.C., our nation's glorious capital. Then, some people just call it D.C. up here. I guess that saying "Washington District of Columbia" doesn't make sense to them. Or me. I mean, what does Columbia have to do with anything? Where the heck is Columbia? Why did we name _our_ capital after another country?

Anyways, the trip's supposed to be educational, because knowing how a law is passed will _obviously_ save you from an angry Eraser. Maybe it'll even help you find your mysterious, crack addict parents, in my case.

I steal a slice of bacon from Iggy's plate and helped myself to some of the pancakes that sat steaming temptingly on the counter. Noting the blackened ones near the top, I grab several from the bottom of the pile. Either Max was tired enough to think she could cook, or Anne had wanted to play mom again.

Eventually, our local FBI agent appears from her 'quarters' and reminds us that we have to wear our uniforms. I stiffen, my lip curling as I dwell on the despised outfit, but I save the growling for Total. After a curt discussion in which I point-blank refused to wear the uniform and then walked away, Anne relents and I tug on a black hooded sweatshirt over my uniform.

She drives us to our deranged excuse for a school, with Max forcing me into the back of her secret service style automobile. My head hits the machine's ceiling quite a few times and I'm convinced that only the padding of my hood keeps me from suffering brain damage. Angel, Gazzy, Nudge, Iggy, and I pile out of the cramped car with the fierce pride and dignity of the survivors of the unjust that we are while Max takes her time to hop out of the front seat.

I grab Iggy and we join the milling circus that vaguely resembles a class. Iggy splits when Lissa walks up, but I don't mind. Lissa starts up a conversation of sorts, luckily one that only requires me to nod and mutter a slow "yeah" every now and then. Whatever she's talking about, I'm fairly confident that it's not important, so I flick my eyes through the crowd of school kids, searching halfheartedly for my fellow mutant freaks.

Iggy's easy to find, as he's only about ten feet away. He's chatting animatedly with someone tall enough to look straight into his eyes, though I'm not sure he's noticed that particular detail.

The innocent expression Angel's aiming and her teacher, along with the strangely blank look on said teacher's face, makes me narrow my eyes and think somewhat angry thoughts. I mean, let's face it, I don't get _mad_ mad.

Nudge and Gazzy are engaged in perfectly normal activities, making them perhaps the most suspicious of all of the younger Flock members. Then, maybe that's what they would have been doing today if they hadn't ended up with wings pinned to their backs.

I feel my shoulders tense when I find Max hanging with that wimp, Sam. She's too close to him, and I have to shut down fantasies of beating both the living _and_ dying daylights out of him. No one should be able to take advantage of her that way; no one should be allowed to kiss her in the driveway and get away with it.

I'm still brooding over the matter when Lissa calls my pseudo-name loudly. My head jerks down to stare at her and the impatient expression on her face.

"Nick," she says, flipping her red hair over her shoulder, "Did you hear anything I just said?"

_No,_ I think, but I'm saved from answering when one of her friends that I can't stand tugs her away. Lissa tells me that she's going to sit with her giggly friend on the bus and they walk off.

Soon, one of the teachers, not the obsessive headmaster, calls for the students to board the buses. I shuffle into the suddenly pushy crowd that doesn't look anything like the orderly line it's supposed to be and make into the derelict school bus after a long, boring wait. I choose a seat in the second row, noting the useful footrest made by an oversized tire's cave. The gray seats are cracked and torn and littered with meaningless doodles and old-fashioned declarations of love.

After an uptight educator lectures us on proper field trip behavior, the bus's ancient engine roars to life and it chugs down a winding Virginia road. I'm sitting with my knees bent, leaning toward and looking out the grimy window when the little girl arrives. She can't be older than four, and seems to speak smatterings of both English and _español_. Personally, I'm wondering what made the quiet guy with the hood up seem like a fun person to talk to, but I listen almost politely as she begins to talk.

Half of what she says is impossible to decipher and immediately dismissed and such, a third of it comes out as actual words but persists with not making sense, and the last part is the only stuff I can respond to intelligently. She shoves a pad of paper and a pencil into my hands and insists that I draw a volcano. At this point I'm getting impatient, but I oblige her and draw a recognizable squiggle. The midget child, a term that may not be entirely accurate but fit from the point of view of a lunatic bird kid, makes me add Dora the Explorer to the drawing. Now, normally I wouldn't be caught dead drawing something like that, but this kid is kinda cute and reminds me of Max a bit, so I put down a quick stick figure.

It goes on for while: she asks me to draw something and I do, in varying degrees of elaboration. Eventually, she falls silent and looks down frowning, her eyebrows together in childish concentration.

"What's up?" I ask gently, feeling like a big softie. Yeah, I'm the super-tough, silent, deadly Fang.

"Who's Max?" she asks in return, gazing up at me with wide brown eyes.

My heart skips a beat, and I'm thinking for a second that I've got another mind reader on my hands when she points at a cluster of words on the back of the seat in front of us.

"Who's Max?" she repeats.

I look closely at the seat and read the words someone and had printed there a long time ago: _Max and Nicole forever._ I smirk at the irony.

So I tell the little girl, all thoughts of Lissa slipping out of my mind, "Max is someone I care about very much."

I can tell by the smile on her face that she knows I meant 'love' when I said 'care.'

**A/N: So, review if you liked it, review if you hated it and tell me why. Corrections, comments, etc. and welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading.**

**(Oh, and if anyone's interested, I'll be working on my other fic, the one not as centered around the Flock.)**


End file.
